Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [88]
‘But who–?’
‘Yes,’ said the Inspector. ‘Who? That’s the question. What about the husband sleeping next door, who never said goodnight to his wife and who heard nothing? I should say we hadn’t far to look. Must find out what terms they were on That’s where you can be useful to us, Mr Satterthwaite. You’ve the ongtray here, and you can get the hang of things in a way we can’t. Find out what relations there were between the two.’
‘I hardly like–’ began Mr Satterthwaite, stiffening.
‘It won’t be the first murder mystery you’ve helped us with. I remember the case of Mrs Strangeways. You’ve got a flair for that sort of thing, sir. An absolute flair.’
Yes, it was true–he had a flair. He said quietly:
‘I will do my best, Inspector.’
Had Gerard Annesley killed his wife? Had he? Mr Satterthwaite recalled that look of misery last night. He loved her–and he was suffering. Suffering will drive a man to strange deeds.
But there was something else–some other factor. Mabelle had spoken of herself as coming out of a wood–she was looking forward to happiness–not a quiet rational happiness–but a happiness that was irrational–a wild ecstasy…
If Gerard Annesley had spoken the truth, Mabelle had not come to her room till at least half an hour later than he had done. Yet David Keeley had seen her going up those stairs. There were two other rooms occupied in that wing. There was Mrs Graham’s, and there was her son’s.
Her son’s. But he and Madge…
Surely Madge would have guessed…But Madge wasn’t the guessing kind. All the same, no smoke without fire–Smoke!
Ah! he remembered. A wisp of smoke curling out through Mrs Graham’s bedroom door.
He acted on impulse. Straight up the stairs and into her room. It was empty. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
He went across to the grate. A heap of charred fragments. Very gingerly he raked them over with his finger. His luck was in. In the very centre were some unburnt fragments–fragments of letters…
Very disjointed fragments, but they told him something of value.
‘Life can be wonderful, Roger darling. I never knew…all my life has been a dream till I met you, Roger…’
‘…Gerard knows, I think…I am sorry but what can I do? Nothing is real to me but you, Roger…We shall be together, soon.
‘What are you going to tell him at Laidell, Roger? You write strangely–but I am not afraid…’
Very carefully, Mr Satterthwaite put the fragments into an envelope from the writing-table. He went to the door, unlocked it and opened it to find himself face to face with Mrs Graham.
It was an awkward moment, and Mr Satterthwaite was momentarily out of countenance. He did what was, perhaps, the best thing, attacked the situation with simplicity.
‘I have been searching your room, Mrs Graham. I have found something–a packet of letters imperfectly burnt.’
A wave of alarm passed over her face. It was gone in a flash, but it had been there.
‘Letters from Mrs Annesley to your son.’
She hesitated for a minute, then said quietly: ‘That is so. I thought they would be better burnt.’
‘For what reason?’
‘My son is engaged to be married. These letters–if they had been brought into publicity through the poor girl’s suicide–might have caused much pain and trouble.’
‘Your son could burn his own letters.’
She had no answer ready for that. Mr Satterthwaite pursued his advantage.
‘You found these letters in his room, brought them into your room and burnt them. Why? You were afraid, Mrs Graham.’
‘I am not in the habit of being afraid, Mr Satterthwaite.’
‘No–but this was a desperate case.’
‘Desperate?’
‘Your son